Selfless
by samchandler1986
Summary: Sam takes some baby steps in the parenting minefield.


"Look, I just don't think he's reliable," Sam says.

"Just, just give him a chance," Justine pleads. "Come on. Everyone deserves their break, right?"

"No," he replies, making a face. "Not everyone. And he hadhis chance and blew it. That's the reality here. _That's_ showbiz."

"No, that's you being a stubborn asshole," she mutters. "Fine. I'll tell him there's no job."

"Fine. You do that." He shrugs. "I don't even know why we're having this conversation. Again."

There's something else, trapped behind the thin line of her angry mouth, but she can't seem to say it. She turns on her heel instead, stalking away from him in high dudgeon.

"What the _actual_ fuck?" he says, to himself. He turns around, still shaking his head, to find Tammé watching him from across the car park. "Don't judge," he says, pacing over to her. "She thinks this guy is the next Scorsese."

"And you disagree?"

Sam shrugs. "He's an arrogant prick who thinks he's the first director to discover neo-noir film making and the utility of a good blood rig." He thinks about this. "Also, he's got a weird chin."

Tammé shuffles her feet. "And you think he likes your daughter."

"What? No. I don't care. I mean, she's nineteen. She can f—she can date who she likes." He sighs, recognising his choice of words for what it is. "Fuck."

"Welcome to parenthood."

He shakes his head again. "I'm not good at this."

"No one is," she says, sounding surprised. "Not to start with, anyway."

"You seem to have it figured out pretty well."

Her brow creases, not sure if he is joking or not. "What makes you say that?"

"Your son is at Stanford. You came to my office, on your first real job, to talk to me about you character concerns in case it upset him."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"I just… I think you overthink things."

She remains unmoved by his sharp look in response; he supposes she must be telling the truth. "That's not what most of the women in my life have thought up to now."

"I'm just saying… who are you trying to measure up to when you say you're not good at this? There's no magic to it. You just put them first."

"I'm not used to having to do that."

She shrugs. "Neither was I. You just do it. Until it becomes a habit. Until you don't have to think about it anymore. It just… becomes part of who you are."

"Huh."

She gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "It's not rocket science, Sam."

"So, what do I do now?" He gestures after his wayward daughter. "Do I follow her… or…?"

She takes pity on him. "What's going to happen with this guy if she tells him he can't work with you?"

It's not a deep dive for Sam to guess his next move, although his imagination skids away from the conclusion. "Yeah. _That_."

"So, if you really think _that's_ not what's best for her, what can you do to stop it?"

He pinches his nose. "Talk to him. Maybe give him that second chance? Stop making it seem like a him or me deal. Christ. I really don't like—"

"And _that's_ putting her first."

"Huh," he says again. His moustache twitches as he meets her eyes, the beginnings of a smile. "How much am I paying you again?"

"Not enough?" she smiles back.

* * *

"What? No, you can't bring him in here. This is a working environment."

Debbie fixes him with a look, the kind that probably launched ships to war in antiquity. "I need to rehearse," she says, "my babysitter has cancelled and my ex-husband is an ass. _You_ are sitting up here doing next to nothing. If you want Friday's show to work, you _will_ take Randy, and keep him safe and happy until my mother arrives."

"Hey, you're not the director," he fires back. "You can't—"

"No, I'm one half of your title card match and the only wrestler you have that can do a diving crossbody without someone losing their teeth." She takes in his blank look and rolls her eyes. "Where I jump off the rope, Sam. Come on. You're up here doodling shitty cartoons and… I don't even want to know what else. If I had _anyone_ else I could go to in this situation, believe me, I would be there."

He grits his teeth, a muscle working in his jaw as he reigns in his temper. "Fine," he says, eventually, short and clipped. "But Friday's show better make people lose their goddamn minds."

"It will," she says. "Thank you."

He shakes his head. "I never signed up for this shit."

"And I did?" she retorts. She tucks a strand of errant hair behind her ear. "Where are the drugs in here?"

"What?"

"Just… answer the damn question, Sam. I know there's some here. I just want to… This is my baby and—"

"Jesus _Christ_! I'm not going to let him do drugs! What the hell do you think I am?"

"Not a parent," she returns flatly.

The silence that follows the statement is ringing. She's right, of course. In every way it matters, he isn't. An accident of biology doesn't make him a Dad. His fumbling attempts to parent Justine are just that; baby steps, a first try. One he'll inevitably fuck up, like everything else meaningful in his life up to this point. It just hurts to be _reminded_ of that.

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, in the face of his total shutdown. "I meant… of a baby," she tries. "You've never had—"

"I know what you meant."

And there it should end, in ice cold rage, were it not for Randy himself extending a pudgy fist towards Sam. "Ba!" he exclaims, smiling.

Debbie swallows. "Thirty minutes," she says. "That's all we need."

"Yeah. I get it." He stands up, and she passes Randy over, still a little reluctant. "Go. Rehearse."

"Um, yeah," she says. There are tears she's too proud to let fall in her eyes, an apology unspoken that can't escape her mouth. "Don't smoke," she says instead, and flees.

Randy stays smiling for about thirty more seconds, dandled on his lap. Then he realises his mother has left the room and breaks into a wailing cry.

"Yeah," says Sam. "Me too, kid." He tries bouncing him a few more times, but the wail becomes a piercing shriek. "Uh," he manages, before the door opens again. To his surprise it isn't Debbie but Tammé come to his aid. "Oh thank God," he says, "you're much better at—"

"Uh-uh," Tammé replies, "I have to rehearse too."

"But—"

"I know, I can hear him too. Bring him outside so he can see his Momma."

"What?"

"Trust me. And take his bunny."

Sam goggles at her, but manages to follow the instructions. Randy squeals the whole way down the stairs, but changes to a watery gurgle when he spots Debbie in the ring with Ruth.

"Ma!" he says.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's her. Liberty Belle," he says, walking over to the bleachers. "Can you say that? Commentary on social stereotypes." He makes the bunny say it, like a muppet. "Stereotypes. Yeah."

He catches Tammé's eye across the room and gives her a wink.


End file.
